### Chapter 2 – Thrones of Blood
The morning sun rose over Draeven like a wound, its pale light trembling over streets slick with yesterday's fire. Smoke lingered, stubborn as guilt, curling from collapsed homes and half-burned corpses. To the people, Kael and Selara were the **liberators**, the saviors who had toppled the monstrous Draith. Yet behind their smiles, a new terror was forming.
In the council hall, Kael stood at the head of the long obsidian table. His armor had been polished, shining like the blade of a guillotine. Advisors whispered quietly, careful to meet his gaze only when spoken to. One dared suggest relief for the starving districts.
Kael's silver eyes fixed on him. "Relief?" he repeated slowly, savoring the word as if it were poison. "Do you think mercy feeds power? Do you think the people need kindness? No. They need fear. Fear is more sustaining than bread."
The advisor shrank, his voice trembling. "But, my lord, famine-"
Kael raised a hand. "Silence. You speak as though Draith's tyranny ended, but tyrants are eternal. And so are we."
At the windows, Selara leaned, her slender fingers tracing the condensation of the glass. Outside, the city trembled under the new rulers. Fires were still smoldering, not from war, but from **punishments**. Those who had spoken against Kael or Draith's old regime had vanished. Children and old men alike whispered rumors of the new queen of cruelty.
A servant entered timidly, bowing. "Your Highness… a messenger from the West District."
Selara's lips curved into that merciless smile. "Bring him in," she said, her voice silk over steel.
The messenger knelt, eyes wide. "My lady, there has been unrest… people have dared to resist your decree. They-"
Selara drew a dagger, pressing the cold tip against his throat. "Speak carefully. Every word that escapes you could be your last."
The man swallowed hard, tears forming. "They… they are starving, Lady Selara. They have nothing to eat. Please—"
Selara tilted her head, studying him like a predator admiring a dying bird. "Nothing to eat? Ah, the irony. Draith starved you with taxes. And I starve you with **principle**. Hunger is not pain—it is obedience."
Kael approached, his heavy boots echoing across the hall. He knelt, pressing a hand to the messenger's shoulder. "Learn this well," he whispered, voice soft but lethal. "Pain is temporary. Fear is eternal. You will remember us, and you will obey, because we **own** your lives now."
The messenger crumpled, body shaking, as Selara withdrew her dagger with a whisper of satisfaction. "Send him back," she said. "Tell the districts the crown is watching."
That night, Kael and Selara walked the city streets themselves. Torches flared along cobblestones, reflecting the blood-red sky. Citizens knelt instinctively, murmuring prayers to the "heroes," though some dared to glance with hate. Kael caught one such look from a young boy and smiled—not a comforting smile, but the slow, deliberate grin of a predator.
"You wish I would spare you?" Kael asked, voice low.
The boy trembled. "I… I meant no harm, my lord…"
Kael tilted his head. "No harm?" He lifted the boy by the collar, letting his boots scrape mud across the child's face. "No harm? You live because I decide it. Remember that. And fear me."
Selara's laughter floated in the air, delicate and sharp. "Teach him well, Kael. Fear is the most honest of lessons."
They moved on, leaving whispers of terror and awe in their wake. By dawn, the city had learned that the **saviors of Draeven** were monsters as cruel as the one they had deposed. Yet the people still called them heroes, unable to reconcile the terror with the glory.
And in their palace, Kael and Selara celebrated not the victory, but the **control**. They were no longer warriors of light. They were monarchs of darkness, their crowns forged not from gold, but from the blood of those who dared oppose them.
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